Not all the potent herbs that growOn purple heath, or mountain's brow,Can banished peace restore;In vain the spring of tears to dry,For purer air or softer skyWe quit our native shore.Friendship, the richest balm that flows,Was meant to heal our sharpest woes,But runs not always pure;And Love—has sorrows of his own,Which not an herb beneath the moonIs found of power to cure.Soft Pity, mild dejected maid,With tenderest hand applies her aidTo dry the frequent tear;But her own griefs, of finer kind,Too deeply wound the feeling mindWith anguish more severe.